If there had been a spy, it must either have been Scarthe himself, or one who had communicated with him: else why the arrest of Holtspur?
Sir Marmaduke believed the captain of the King’s cuirassiers quite capable of the infamous act. His apparent friendship and courtesy—his professions of regret for the part he was compelled to play—had not deceived his host. Sir Marmaduke had no difficulty in detecting the spurious pretences of his guest.
As yet Scarthe had given him no hint of the knowledge he possessed. For his own reasons, he had carefully abstained from this. Nevertheless, Sir Marmaduke had his suspicions.
Unfortunately, he had no means of satisfying them, one way or the other. Scarthe had carefully scrutinised his correspondence—under the pretence that he did so by orders from the King—and such of the members of that meeting, as Sir Marmaduke had been able to see personally, were, like himself, only suspicious. No one in the neighbourhood knew of the doings of that night, except Dancey, Walford, and Gregory Garth. Dancey and his daughter had both been absent for weeks—it was not known where; Walford had no dealings with Sir Marmaduke Wade; and Garth was utterly unknown to him.
The knight knew that his liberty—his life—were in the scales. A feather—a breath—and the beam might be kicked against him. No wonder he was apprehensive—even to wretchedness.
There was but one clear spot in the sky—one beacon on which to fix his hopes—the Parliament.
This Parliament—afterwards distinguished as the “Long”—perhaps the most patriotic assembly that ever met amongst men—was about to commence its sittings, as well as its struggles with the hoary hydra of royal prerogative. To the oppressed it promised relief—to the condemned a respite—to the imprisoned a restoration of their liberty.
But the royal reptile, though cowering, and partially crushed, had not yet been deprived of his fangs. There were places throughout the realm where his power was rampant as ever—where he could still seize, confiscate, and behead. With reason, therefore, might Sir Marmaduke feel dread of his vengeance. And no wonder: with Sir John Elliot pining away his life in a prison; with the wrongs of Lenthall, and Lilburne, and Prynne unavenged; with men walking the streets deprived of their ears, and outraged by other mutilations; with Holtspur himself, whom Sir Marmaduke now knew to be the noble patriot Henry —, an outlawed fugitive, hiding himself from the sleuth-hounds of a spited queen!
The good knight resembled the mariner in the midst of a tempest. The re-summoned Parliament was the life-boat struggling across the surge—surrounded by angry breakers. Would it live to reach, and relieve him? Or was he destined to see it strike upon a rock, and its gallant crew washed away amidst the waste of waters?
In truth, a gallant crew, as ever carried ship of state through the storm—as ever landed one in a haven of safety. Hark to their names—every one of them a household word! Pym, Hampden, Hollis, and Hazlerig; the Lords Kimbolton, Essex, and Fairfax; and last and greatest, the immortal Oliver Cromwell! It was a glorious galaxy of names—enough to inspire even the timid with confidence; and by such were the timid sustained.